


A Dark Heart is Beating

by red_b_rackham



Series: Kinda Outta Luck [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (a little), Angst, Creepy, Creepy Scenes, Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Humor, I Hate You Stop Saving My Life, Moderate language, Monsters, Mystery, October Prompt Challenge, Oneshot, Scary, Scary Scenes, Snark & Sass, The Creep Factor Is High, dreams are weird, feels feels feels, spoopy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5126405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_b_rackham/pseuds/red_b_rackham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds himself trapped and of course Bela’s apparently the only one who can get him out of this, before they both end up dead. Sometimes he seriously hates his life. Dean/Bela. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dark Heart is Beating

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the October Prompt Challenge at [The Beta Branch](http://thebetabranch.prophpbb.com). Big thank you to the wonderful ladies who betaed and gave me feedback on this!! <3
> 
> Part of the challenge was to make something that is actually scary, so hopefully I achieved that a little bit with this! This fic takes place after my other two Dean/Bela short fics, but can easily be read without reading them. Happy Halloween!  
> 
>  
> 
> _Prompts: we'll be the broken lovers with the poison cup // hope you are quite prepared to die_

Waking up on Bobby's couch wasn't the weird part. Waking up on Bobby's couch when he had no idea how he got there, surrounded by a house that looked like it'd been abandoned fifty years ago was the weird part.

Dean shook his head, trying to clear the blur in his vision. His mouth was sticky and dry and for a second he thought maybe he was just really hungover, although he didn't remember drinking. Then again, wouldn't have been the first time.

He glanced around the room, wondering why it was so dirty and dusty. Bobby wasn't like, Suzie Homemaker or anything, but Dean knew he kept the place cleaner than this – at least would've fixed the peeling wallpaper. Taken the cobwebs off the lights and shelves.

 _He left, remember?_ His mind supplied. _He moved._

Dean pressed his palm to his temple. His head felt heavy and thick, stuffed with cotton batting.

 _Right, of course_ , he thought. _He moved years ago._

Dean climbed to his feet and fought off a dizzy spell. _Seriously, how much did I drink last night?_ He glanced down and saw a couple dusty beer bottles. They couldn't have been his – except they must've been, and wait, no, they weren't dusty at all. He blinked and there were more than two.

He gave his head a shake. _Lots, apparently._

He wondered why he'd decided to drive all the way to Bobby's abandoned house for a drink. Wondered why Sam hadn't come with him… or come after him. Dean touched his fingers to his forehead and found he couldn't remember specifics.

Maybe they'd had a fight? Must've been a pretty big fight if he'd drank so much he'd blacked out. There'd definitely been yelling. He swallowed, anxiety and guilt coiling in his gut. If Dean had been passed out all night, wherever Sam was, he was probably worried. Fight or no fight.

Dean dug in his pockets for his phone and his keys. Frowning, he rifled between the musty couch cushions but came up empty. He checked under the couch – no dice. He searched the living room and ignored the worry that flickered in his chest when he still couldn't find either item.

"Well, what the hell," he grumbled. Had he left them in the car? That was a little reckless, even if Bobby's _was_ abandoned and out of town.

He sighed and headed for the hallway.

And kept walking. And walking.

When had the room gotten this long and wide? Dean narrowed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, his senses prickling. It looked normal – regular sized, empty, old. He made for the hallway again but his feet were impossibly heavy, like he was wearing cement shoes. He was walking, he could _feel_ he was walking, but the hallway wasn't getting any closer. Why were his feet _so_ damn heavy?

Dean fought off a surge of panic. Something was very, very wrong. And he needed to–

"What was that?"

Dean looked up from the book in his hands. Bobby was at his desk, thumbing through some ancient tone. He flicked his gaze up at Dean.

"What was that?" the older man repeated.

Dean blinked. He'd been doing something important a second ago… hadn't he?

"Did you find something?" Bobby asked, looking at Dean expectantly.

"Sorry, I think I zoned out a little there," Dean said. He gave his head a shake and returned his attention to the book in his lap. He couldn't remember what had distracted him.

The words were upside down and backwards – it was very hard to read. He was researching goblins and they were attracted to sunlight, so all he and Sam had to do was –

 _No, that's not right,_ he thought. Goblins had nothing to do with sunlight.

Of course, he was researching _yaelwites_ and _they_ were the ones who were –

"Uh, Bobby?"

"What?"

Dean yelped and threw the book clear across the room. Where Bobby had previously been sitting was a crusty skeleton wearing Bobby's hat. Dean was on his feet, heart pounding, scrabbling for his gun, but he didn't have it on him.

"Dean?"

Dean cursed and whirled.

Bela held her hands up, palms out. "Dean, relax, it's me."

Dean grabbed the lamp off the end table, yanking the cord out of the wall. A dumb weapon was better than no weapon at all.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" He glanced at the skeleton – which wasn't there anymore and Dean swallowed another yell of surprise.

"Well, I'm sorry to say it's a slight bit complicated," said Bela. She lowered her hands but her posture remained tense.

Dean's grip tightened on the lamp. His heart thrummed against his bones as he returned his attention to Bela. Completely confused, he took her in. It was as though she were in color, while everything else was in muted pastels – sort of a pale, blue-green, washed-out hue. And there Bela was, stark and brilliant and standing right in the middle of Bobby's inexplicably decrepit living room. He hadn't noticed things were off but seeing her contrasting with the surroundings, it was blindingly obvious.

"Do put the lamp down, darling," she told him with a roll of her eyes. " _I'm_ not here to harm you."

"Yeah right," he grumbled out of reflex. He lowered the lamp, but didn't put it down. He still felt way too muddled and off balance to trust anything – _what_ was going on? He gave his head a shake but his level of anxiety didn't abate.

The corner of her lip quirked up. "That's better. Now, tell me, what's the last thing you remember?" She still didn't relax her stance.

"I was…" Dean started, confident, then trailed off. Truth was, he couldn't remember… anything. He searched his mind and he felt like he was flailing around through thick fog, his fingers brushing against solid objects that turned intangible when he tried to latch on.

"I can't…" He grit his teeth together.

"Try," Bela prompted. "C'mon, Dean, try harder. This is important."

Dean shut his eyes. _Concentrate._ There was… a case. _Yeah, Minnesota…_ Sam found the articles online, they drove from… from Oregon. Or Omaha. _O-something, anyways._ They found… God, what was it?

"Don't strain yourself," Bela drawled.

Dean shushed her harshly.

"Coma," he blurted, opening his eyes. "Six people fell into a coma for no reason, in the same week. Four died."

Bela nodded. "Six died," she corrected him. "As of this morning. Now here's the sticky bit: you're the seventh."

Dean blinked at her. " _What?_ "

She glanced at her watch. "Darling, I'd love to spill the whole story for you, but we simply haven't the time. If you want to live, that is. Let's go." She gestured to the door but he didn't move.

"You gotta be kidding me – I am not in a coma," he snapped at her. "I'd _know_ if I was in a coma."

"Would you?" she raised her eyebrow at him. "Look, you and Sam got onto the tail of a _gift drømmer_ – you know what that is?"

Probably, but like he could think of it right now. He could barely remember his own last name right now, for God's sake. (He was pretty sure it started with a W. Or S. Or… C?)

She checked her watch again with a huffing sigh. "The literal translation is _poison dreams._ I wasn't there and neither was Sam – he found you, down for the count and foaming green at the mouth."

"So this – " Dean gestured with his hand and the lamp. "Is a dream?"

"Essentially."

"So… I'm dreaming that you're here, telling me everything? Why you?"

"No, you're not dreaming me," she sighed. "I have... knowledge about the beast and had some particular ingredients Bobby and Sam required. I came, I took the draught we brewed so I could come in here, inside your head. Let's _go._ "

That was a horrible, violating notion – Bela, inside _his head_ – but it wasn't like he had much of a choice. Apparently.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Why didn't Sam drink it?"

"What part of 'I have knowledge' did you miss?" Bela retorted edgily.

"Oh, there's _so_ a story there."

"And one you will not be getting any time soon." Her cheeks flushed a little and he knew he'd hit a nerve.

"You're still not answering why Sam didn't come in here," Dean pushed. "You could have just imparted your precious" – he made air quotes – "knowledge."

"There wasn't time – there still isn't," she explained, irritated and rattled. "I wasn't going to let you – " She cut herself off and just like that, she pulled it all back in. Her familiar mask fell back into place, smooth and chilly as ice.

"Dean, I'm trying to get you out before the _drømmer_ traps you and kills us both," she said, all business, but there was still an urgency to her manner that bothered him. "So, if you'd be so kind, move your fine ass before we are both dead."

"Yeah, I'm not going anywhere with you," Dean said, brandishing the lamp at her once again. "How do I know you're not the _geef-trommer_ thing trying to lure me somewhere and finish me off? How do I _know_ I'm dreaming, huh?"

"Oh, for – did you not hear the part about _dying_ in your nightmare-scape?" said Bela waspishly.

"Look, sweetheart, this all feels real to me, so prove you're not just fabrication."

She raised her eyebrow and didn't hide her amused grin. "Dean, do you really dream about me that often?"

He stopped his hasty _No!_ from tumbling past his lips just in time, turning it into a super believable non-committal noise.

"Shut up." He glared at her when her eyes sparkled.

"I don't know what I can say to make you trust me, Dean." Bela crossed her arms over her chest. "It isn't like you trust me anyhow. And, being that this is your head that we're in, anything I say, you'll just decide your subconscious thought up."

Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek. Maybe she had a point. But still.

"Why don't you give me the benefit of the doubt, and we'll be on our way, yeah?"

He stalked towards her, and sneered. "Yeah, whatever. Thanks anyways, but I can find my own way out."

"We don't have time for this," she huffed. "But _please_ , be my guest." Bela waved her hand in the direction of the hallway.

"I will. And I'm taking the lamp."

He barged past her and this time the living room didn't expand impossibly nor did his feet turn to cement. _Right. That happened._ He'd already forgotten about that. _Okay,so maybe this really is a dream._ This time he went straight to the front door, flung it open, and saw daylight. He tossed a triumphant smile over his shoulder at Bela, who waited in the living room. Dean crossed the threshold –

Into the kitchen.

"What the – ?" He spun. Okay, so the front door was messed up. No big deal.

Dean stormed down the hallway, past the living room, ignoring Bela and her smug _hmm_ ing noise. He grabbed the handle to the back door and threw it open.

And gave a frustrated shout when he found himself in the master bedroom upstairs. He went for the window next, figuring if the hex was on the doors, maybe –

Basement. _Or not._

Attempting to exit the basement by creative means landed him in the upstairs bathroom. He slumped down the stairs to Bela about a minute later, mumbling obscenities.

"Had enough?" she asked, arms still crossed over her chest. "Now that you've wasted precious time, shall we get on with it?"

"And how do _you_ think we're going to get out of here if it's one giant, looping maze, huh?" he demanded.

She smiled and it was the kind of infuriating smile she used on him that made him want to clock her.

"Simply follow me, darling." She crooked her finger at him and headed towards the stairs. He didn't miss the tightness in her shoulders as she moved. Bela, who was relaxed in any situation and hid it well when she wasn't, was on edge.

"In case you missed it, this is where I just came from," he barked at her back, fighting off a wave of worry. Couldn't Sam have sent _literally anyone_ else to help him out of this?

"I'm well aware, but _you_ can't see the way out."

"And you can?"

"It glows."

He couldn't tell if she was kidding or not.

When they reached the top of the stairs, she stopped and faced him. "I don't exactly know what we're going to find, but suffice to say, it's not going to be pretty."

"What do you mean?"

"The _gift drømmer_ 's kiss put you under, and the longer you stay under, the closer you are to death. The beast will use things rattling around in your head to keep you here. I'm your anchor to reality."

He blinked at her, skeptical and so not okay with that little nugget. "Seriously?" he repeated. Of all the people in the world, it had to be freaking Bela.

"Lucky you," she quipped.

Dean frowned. "Okay fine, let's go," he said gruffly.

"Wait, I mean it, Dean." Bela levelled her gaze at him. "Whatever happens, you must keep going. Telling what's real and what's not is going to be quite the trip. So, look for the flaw in the _drømmer_ 's illusion. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, okay, keep going no matter, I got it."

If he really was in a coma or whatever, and he was finally starting to believe he was, then he really didn't want to linger. He raked his fingers through his hair, steeling himself for whatever came next. He'd seen plenty of horrors and nasty creatures, he honestly doubted the monster could drum up something he couldn't fight.

She looked at the end table lamp he was still clutching. "Are you going to carry that the whole way?"

"Do you have a gun I can have instead?"

She suppressed a smirk and rounded the corner, heading for the spare room. Dean held the lamp tight and at the ready, his muscles tense, senses on alert.

Halfway down the hall, the door to the bathroom rattled. Dean overreacted and smashed his only weapon against the wood. It shattered in his hand and clattered to the floor. He knew metal wouldn't break like that in reality, but, this apparently wasn't reality.

Bela jumped at the noise, hand to her chest, and rolled her eyes.

"You said be ready," he said defensively in response to her glare.

" _Be ready,_ not, attack a door."

He scowled at her and tossed away the useless cord dangling from his fingers.

In the spare room, the first thing Dean noticed was that there was three doors in the wall where he was pretty sure there wasn't supposed to be any doors. Not if this was still Bobby's house, which it still looked exactly like. The second thing he noticed was Jo, doubled over on the floor, gasping, calling his name.

"Jo!" he darted to her side.

"Dean, thank God!" Jo grasped his arm with a bloody hand. Red soaked her stomach, trickled from her mouth, was streaked in her blonde hair.

A bolt of fear stabbed his gut. "What happened?"

"S-shot…" Jo's lips trembled. She was so pale – she must've have lost a lot of blood – God, it was everywhere, all over her jeans and the floorboards…

"Dean," Bela said somewhere behind him.

Dean shucked his flannel shirt and pressed it to Jo's stomach. "It's okay, Jo," he told her and ignored the way his hands were shaking. "It's okay, we'll get you out of here."

" _Dean_ ," Bela tried again. "It's not her, come on."

"Like hell it isn't," he snapped. Of course it was her – she was _right here_. He could feel her fingers gripping his shirt, could smell the copper of her blood. He didn't have time to question who shot her and why, he had to get her out. Find a hospital. Sam would know what to do.

Jo curled into him, trembling and fragile and bleeding. "Dean…" she whispered. "S-save… me…"

He tucked one arm around her back and one under her leg. "I got you, Jo."

Dean could feel the weight of her as he stood. Could feel the wet, hot, sticky blood soaking into his chest. He held Jo close, his heart skittering under his skin.

"That's not her!" said Bela sharply, grabbing his arm.

"Get off me," he growled, shrugging Bela off. He wasn't about to let Jo die, wasn't going to let her bleed out in the spare room. "Jo – "

He choked when he looked down at her – Jo's face was skeletal, white skin stretched paper thin over angular bones; eyes sunk deep in black sockets, so deep he couldn't see them anymore. Her bony hand was clutching at his collar, her mouth a crooked maw sucking in a rattling, stale breath. Dean let go of her, shocked and repulsed. His hands were caked with her dried blood. Jo's bones shattered on the floor and she screamed, a hideous shriek that ripped through his skull.

Dean was on his knees when Bela dug her nails into his arm and pulled.

"I told you not to stop!" she yelled above the din of Jo's wails. Bela ran for the second of the three doors that weren't supposed to be there.

Dean followed – was the door getting smaller or were he and Bela getting farther away? Jo's horrible keening clanged around the room, reverberating off the walls. He wanted to cover his ears but then Bela was diving through the shrinking door-that-was-basically-a-hole and Dean tumbled very gracefully after her. The opening sealed up with an unsettling squelch behind them.

He landed in a painful heap beside her, knocking the wind out of him. He coughed and wheezed and Bela gave his back a few casual slaps until he'd recovered.

"Okay," he said and sucked in another breath. He dashed the moisture from his eyes. "What the damn hell."

Bela sighed. "I _warned_ you."

Crap. She had, hadn't she? Why was everything so hard to remember here? Why was he struggling to hold himself together already? He was tougher than this, damn it.

Dean glanced down at his trembling hands, thankful to see they were no longer stained with Jo's blood – or the blood of whatever-that-was. Breathing normally, he took a moment to properly see where they'd landed and immediately wished he hadn't.

"Oh God!" Dean slammed his eyes shut. He was on the ceiling. The ceiling of the _damn nursery._ His heart hammered at the base of his throat. He waited for the fire to come, the flames to consume him. He waited to hear his mother's dying screams.

"Dean, open your eyes," Bela said. Her tone was unexpectedly soft; that more than anything was what made him crack open his eyes. "We're simply upside down – no reason to be catatonic about it."

He wished he could come up with a suitably snarky reply. Instead he watched Bela, carefully avoiding looking at him, swivel from a sitting position to her hands and knees and start crawling across the ceiling – the floor. Whatever.

On any other day, Dean probably would've admired the view and definitely would've made a comment about it just to piss Bela off. But being on the ceiling of a room, _this room,_ the terribly familiar nursery that had gone up in flames twenty-six years ago, had him sweating and trying not to have a panic attack. He prayed he could make it to wherever Bela was leading them without dying.

The hair on the back of Dean's neck prickled. Something was wrong – more so than being on the ceiling, stuck in a nightmare. He thought he heard something, a thump or a creak but he did not, _did not_ want to look up to see what it was.

That's when the music started.

It was far away, muffled, like a radio in another room. Dean couldn't make out the melody at first but then it got a little louder and sounded like a sweet lullaby. But something was off, the tune, maybe... The sound crackled and faded then grew louder. The words didn't make sense – they were backwards or something. Dean didn't recognize the song but the distorted noise was making his skin crawl – louder, quieter, louder, quieter. It was creeping him the hell out – they needed to get out of here.

Why the hell was the room so _long?_ He swore it hadn't seemed that big when he'd first looked, but they should've reached the far wall by now. Like, ten times over, actually.

Dean drew in a breath, trying to calm himself down, but the feeling of wrongness, of terror, was permeating through every part of him. His arms trembled and sweat slid into his eyes and he was not panicking and he could do this and why was the window so damn far away and _would the music shut off already?_

"Almost there," Bela murmured.

He barely heard her and couldn't seem to form a reply. This is what going insane felt like. He was sure of it. He struggled to keep his focus on her, to keep going, to block out the noise that was making him want to scream.

The last thing Dean wanted to do was look up but when the whine of an old door opening sounded, he couldn't stop himself. He glanced up. Dean could see the cradle, the moonlight splashing across it. Sammy's stuffed bear on the pillow. The music flickered and fuzzed.

Dean saw the curtains waft and swore he saw a shadow with yellow eyes, a long, dark, reaching arm. He tore his attention away and back to Bela. He fought to keep breathing. He was _not_ panicking, he was not, not, not…

Bela finally, _finally_ reached the opposite side of the room. She tugged the curtain aside and pulled herself up to the ledge. Dean's heart tripped, but there was no demon hovering at the sill. Outside he could see nighttime and trees. She climbed over the edge and he followed.

The next room had stone walls and Dean stayed on his knees on the cold floor. He drew in shaky breath after shaky breath. The terror released its grip on his insides and the awful wrongness melted off his shoulders. For a second, all he could register was relief that they weren't on the ceiling anymore. They'd made it.

It was short-lived.

"Bollocks," Bela grumbled.

He was about ask her what her deal was, when he saw his father, chained up in the corner of the dim, dank space. Dean's gut twisted.

"Dean!" John shouted. His face was mottled with blood and bruises. "Is it really you?" His eyes shone with naked hope.

"Don't," Bela warned in Dean's ear as they got to their feet. His heart was bashing against his ribs again.

"I can see you – you're in color," John said, his voice terribly brittle. "I-it trapped me here – after Azazel took me, I was in the Pit, and now…"

 _No,_ Dean thought. He curled his hands into fists at his sides. _Please don't. Not him, not like this._

"Dean," his father pleaded. "It's really me – help me."

Dean swallowed. He dug his nails into his palms. Pain could wake you from a dream, right? If he couldn't feel it, not really, not sharply, he'd know it wasn't real, he'd _know_. Dean stood frozen, pressing his nails harder into his hands. It hurt.

Tears made tracks down John's battered face. "You gotta believe me. Son, help me."

"Dad…" Dean's voice broke and he couldn't stop himself taking a few steps forward. Bela snatched at his arm and he dug his fingernails as hard as he could into his palm. He could feel the skin breaking and throbbing. He hissed when his nails drew blood. Damn it, damn it, _damn it._

" _Dean_ ," John's voice was so painfully desperate. "I told you – I told you in the hospital what you had to do for Sammy – _to_ Sammy if he…" He sucked in a wretched breath. "It's me, you gotta know, it's really me…"

Dean broke.

"No!" Bela shouted but Dean ignored her.

He fell to his knees in front of John and threw his arms around him. Tears slid down his cheeks and mixed with John's.

"You found me," his father whispered, overflowing with relief so acute, it hurt Dean's chest to hear it. "You found me…" Dean held John even tighter.

"Dean, remember what I said!" Bela called. "It'll use what's already in your head!"

She was the one who sounded desperate now. _Screw her_ , he thought. She didn't matter, nothing mattered – somehow the _gift drømmer_ had trapped John in this hideous dreamscape and Dean was going to get him the hell out. He'd get him back, he'd finally have him back.

"It's okay, Dad," he told John. Dean let go so he could undo the chains. He didn't have a key, but he had the paperclip he always kept in his wallet and that was good enough. He started picking the lock.

John exhaled in a rush. "I knew you'd come," he said. The pride and relief pouring from him was overwhelming.

_Find the flaw._

Dean's movements slowed. He felt his insides turn to molasses as a slow, sickening realization settled on him. His thoughts flashed to the cabin, to the Colt. To Yellow Eyes masquerading as his father. _I'm proud of you, son._

"Dean, what is it?"

Dean's eyes prickled with tears and he blinked them back. He could barely force the words out. "You're not… him." _Please, God, tell me I'm wrong._

"What are you saying? Dean, it's _me_! This dreamscape is screwing with your head!"

Dean edged back. His stomach twisted into thick knots. He hated how real this felt, how real he wanted it to be. Needed it to be. He met John's – _not Dad's_ eyes. Dean ached to tell him everything that had happened since he died, needed his advice and guidance, flawed though it may have been. But it wasn't really him.

Dean swore he could feel his heart splintering beneath his ribs.

"If you're using the stuff in my head," said Dean, his voice rickety even as he fought to sound more sure of himself. "Then you should've done your homework a little more."

John gaped at him, crushed and horrified. "Dean, no, _please_ …"

Dean shuffled back and stood, pocketing the paperclip so he could hide his trembling fists. _Never risk yourself for me_ , he heard John – _real_ John – saying in the back of his memories. Remembered the fierce anger as John shook him by the collar – Dean'd been thirteen, nearly got himself killed making sure his father hadn't been drowned by a Rusalki.

" _You could've died!" John shouted. He was so angry. "You almost did – damn it, Dean!"_

_Dean tried to shake him off. "I know! But Dad, I couldn't let you die!"_

_John had crushed him in a powerful hug then and Dean was way too old and too tough for stupid freaking hugs. But no one was around except the smoking remains of the Rusalki and Dean had almost lost his father, so he let himself be hugged._

" _Don't you ever do that again," John told him, voice hard and fragile and layered with emotions Dean couldn't discern. "You never put yourself in danger like that to save me. And I'll never ask you to. You hear me? Never. Damn it, Dean."_

He hadn't thought about that day in years.

Dean turned his back on his father. On whatever was wearing John's skin and shredding Dean's soul with cries for help.

"Dean!" John shouted, over and over. "Don't leave me here!"

Dean saw Bela, hovering by a skinny door in the corner. She was flushed and looked away from him, like she was very sorry she was witnessing something so private. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn't seem to make words come out.

"Let's go," he mumbled, saving her from having to try.

" _Dean!_ " John screamed. His voice was raw and it seared against Dean's skin. "Dean, please! The _gift drømmer_! It's coming back – you have to save me!"

_You never put yourself in danger like that to save me. And I'll never ask you to._

Bela opened the door, revealing pure black darkness. She glanced uncertainly back at Dean.

" _Dean!"_ John bellowed.

Dean shot his hand out and grabbed Bela's wrist. _I'm your anchor to reality._

Everything in him wanted to go back for John and to hell with it being a trick and dream. He couldn't leave him here, not like this, he couldn't listen to his father scream like that…

"Go," Dean gritted out.

Bela nodded and ran ahead, pulling him with her. John's tremendous scream of anguish echoed behind them until the door shutting cut it off. The silence was deafening.

Dean released Bela's wrist and doubled over, hands on his knees, ragged and dragging oxygen into his lungs. The darkness enveloped them. He couldn't see her but he could hear her shifting beside him, her unsteady breathing.

 _Lock it up, lock it up,_ he thought desperately. He was never going to get out of here if he had a breakdown in every single damn room. _God, why does it have to feel so real?_ He'd been through so much, he could do this, he was stronger than this, he _could_ … Dean clenched his teeth against the overwhelming emotions crashing around inside him.

He blinked against the hot tears stinging his eyes and was thankful Bela couldn't see him.

"Dean," Bela began, hesitant.

"Don't," he snapped, sharp and raw. "Just don't… say a fucking word."

"Okay," she whispered. She gave him a good minute to get it together. When his breathing had more or less evened out, she said, "This way."

"I can't see you," Dean said wearily. "So pointing isn't really gonna help."

"You always have to be so difficult." She fumbled for his hand.

As she led them forward through the gloom, he reluctantly noted how nice it was to hold her hand, especially in this literal nightmare. It was grounding and warm. She really _did_ feel like an anchor here and it was more comforting than he could admit. He supposed even if she was another phantom trapping him, this was maybe better than the other things he'd seen so far.

"Are we there yet?" he quipped as they plodded forward.

She only huffed in response.

Dean felt something sliding past him. Or rather, several somethings. He flinched away, but it was on all sides – like long, cold fingers trailing across his skin and clothes. Something whispered nearby, too quiet to make out.

"Bela," he said, clenching his teeth against the horrible sensation. The fingers gently clawed and grasped and Dean squirmed.

"Keep going," she instructed, giving his hand a tug.

"Don't you feel that?" he asked. He swatted at the invisible hands with his free one, but found nothing but air. The whispering gathered and grew in volume until he could pick things out.

_Good little soldier._

_Failure._

_Killer._

Dean shuddered. He tried to shut out the voices. _It's not real,_ he thought, praying it was true.

The ghostly fingers stroked across his face, across his chest, increasing in number. Dean waved his arm around but the sensation didn't abate. The whispers were thick, one melting into the other, but clear.

_You are nothing… worthless… you belonged in the Pit… Daddy's blunt little instrument… failure..._

" _Bela!_ " Dean shouted, hoping to drown out the voices assaulting him.

"We're nearly there." He hated how tight her voice sounded. Perfect. She was hearing it too.

He was suddenly terrified she was going to be ripped away from him, somewhere in this hellacious blackness, and he tightened his grip on her hand. He couldn't get out of here without her.

_Broken... useless… killer…_

Dean gasped when it felt like the floor had suddenly disappeared beneath them. His stomach jumped to his throat, there was an awful second of weightless falling, he clung to Bela's hand and then all at once they were in a long, dark hallway. Dean's knees shuddered at the impact of his feet hitting the floor but he stayed upright.

The voices were gone.

"Okay, I am _seriously_ over this fun house!" he yelled, releasing Bela's hand to smack away the lingering sensation of icy, dead fingers. He swallowed, struggling to shake off the ghostly words. _Lock it up, lock it up..._

Bela shot him a smile that was way too sympathetic to look right on her. She wisely chose not to comment – he kinda thought he might deck her if she had something sarcastic _or_ pitying to say right about then. He was so freaking done with this whole thing.

"You gonna tell me how you know how to do this? How to get out and crap?" Yeah, his voice totally wasn't shaky as hell.

"Nope," said Bela, popping her lips on the 'p'.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Just get me out of here already."

Sniping at Bela was familiar and normal. Safe. It was a lot easier to focus on that then the hell behind him in this nightmare-scape. He could barely remember how it started – trying to picture where he'd been before the ghost room was like dragging his feet through knee-deep mud. The image of John screaming, however, wouldn't stop flickering behind his eyes.

"What do you think I've been doing this whole time, darling?" She glanced down at her watch. "Damn."

He really didn't like her tone, or the fact that she quickened her pace, but he didn't have the chance to comment. Sam came barrelling out of one of the many, many doors lining the grim, green hallway. He was sweating and out of breath, and his features flooded with relief at the sight of the pair of them.

"Dean!"

Dean threw his hands up defensively as Sam ran towards him – or what he assumed _looked_ like Sam, at this point. After what happened with John, Dean wasn't falling for it again.

"Get back," he snapped, stepping away from Sam, who stuttered to a stop.

Bela glanced between Dean and Sam, a line of worry creasing her brow.

"Dean, it's me, it's Sam!"

"Yeah, I've heard that before," Dean replied, his voice hard as granite. Bela'd seen enough of his subconscious for one day, thank you very much, so he really didn't need his brother issues aired out in here for her, too. "Get out of my way."

"Dean, stop," Sam moved between Dean and Bela, imploring. "Look, this is hard to explain, but you're in a coma – "

"I know, she told me." Dean jutted his chin in Bela's direction. "She's getting me out."

"No, Dean, listen – that's not Bela." Sam moved to block her from view. "Whatever you think she is, whatever she told you – "

"This is the ploy you go with? Really." She peered past Sam's tall form, raising her eyebrow at Dean. "We're nearly there, darling, and nearly out of time. Let's go."

Dean took a step towards Bela, but Sam stopped him. "Don't! She's not real. Dean, we were on a case and – "

"The _gift drømmer_ , I know," said Dean. "You're not telling me anything new here, _Sam_ , if you're really Sam."

"Of course I'm – that's what I'm trying to tell you!"

"I said, get out of my way."

Dean made to shoulder past his brother. Sam snatched Dean's wrist, twisting his arm. Dean growled and took a swing but Sam ducked. He jabbed his thumb hard into Dean's palm, which Dean thought was kind of a weird move until pain shot through him so sharp and sudden it had his knees buckling.

He wrenched away from Sam. "Damn it, what the hell!"

"You did this for me, now I'm doing it for you," said Sam. He reached out, stupid fast, and clamped his hand onto Dean's. "Wake up."

Dean jerked his arm back but Sam held fast and dug his finger into Dean's palm again. The pain returned, hot and white, making his vision swim.

"You cut it on some glass," Sam explained, letting up. Dean tried to get his breath back. "When you were attacked by the _gift drømmer_. See?"

Dean focused on his left hand. It was sloppily bandaged with a scrap of fabric. Blood seeped out from it. How the hell hadn't he noticed it before?

"Dean, it's a trick," said Bela.

"No, look," Sam shook his head. His voice was earnest. "Pain wakes you up, right? I'm trying to wake you up – I'm trying to prove this is real, _I'm_ real. Do you hear me?" Sam gave Dean's wrist a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "I'm real."

Dean's heart clattered against his ribs. His eyes darted between Bela and Sam. He'd been so sure – _so_ sure – a second ago who was real. But Bela looked paler than she had moments ago and Sam was in color, instead of the muted blue-green of everything. Could Bela be an illusion after all? Or was this fake Sam just really freaking convincing?

He _did_ kinda remember cutting his hand – it wasn't a memory automatically supplied, like the earlier "dream logic" moments he'd had waking up in Bobby's decaying living room. It also wasn't so hard to reach for like the memories of tracking the _gift drømmer_ were. So that was really helpful.

But it did make a lot more sense that Sam was here trying to get him out instead of Bela. So maybe that was his biggest clue? Yet, she'd been his anchor, she'd gotten him this far… unless she'd only been leading him around in circles to trap him here.

Sam pressed on the wound again, gentler but still enough to make Dean hiss. "Remember?"

"I… don't know."

Sweat broke on Dean's forehead. He was a little woozy all of a sudden – did that mean this was working? Sam was waking him up?

Bela's watch beeped and she let loose a few colorful adjectives. "Dean, we're out of time, we have to get out, _now_." She swayed and braced herself on the wall – she looked about as good as Dean felt. "We're out of _time…_ "

"It's working," Sam breathed, his eyes sparkling with relieved tears. He squeezed Dean's hand and blood dripped onto the floor.

Dean's heart was fluttering now, frantic and racing. He thought he was going to pass out or throw up. If this was waking up, it freaking sucked.

"Dean, no," Bela tumbled to her knees. "We'll die…" She was seized by a coughing fit and blood sprinkled onto her chin. She raised a shaky arm and pointed at the black door only a few feet down the hall. "We have to… get… out..." She crawled towards it, leaving him behind.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam assured him, smiling softly. He let Dean's hand drop. "It's time to wake up."

Sam slid his arm around his brother's back, all helpful and caring just like Sam would be. "That's it, wake up now."

Dean looked up at him blearily, giving in. Letting go. Waking up.

_Find the flaw._

Dean wasn't sure if Bela was saying it again or if he was only remembering it, but the phrase came back to him as he was slumping to the floor, watching his brother looming over him.

Now why the hell was one of Sam's eyes a little greener than the other?

Head swimming, Dean snatched up the knife from Sam's belt and jammed it into his brother's gut. Sam gasped in surprise and stumbled backwards, clutching at the hilt buried in his stomach. Blood seeped into his shirt.

"It was really good," Dean told him. "You almost had me."

"No, Dean…" Sam – no, the _gift drømmer_ , slid to the floor, blood gurgling out of his mouth. One eye had become vibrantly green now while the other was almost Sam's proper, unique shade of hazel-green.

"I can't keep his eye color straight either," Dean murmured, struggling on hands and knees towards Bela. "And I'm his damn brother."

He left the _drømmer_ wheezing and moaning behind. Dean hauled himself on his elbows towards Bela who was shoving open the heavy black door. She turned so she could brace it open with her back, straining and grunting. Blood trickled past her lips as she coughed again.

"Hurry the hell up!" she snapped. "We're out of time – we're dying!"

The hallway seemed to tilt and shift around him, but Dean kept his gaze focused on Bela, on his anchor. He'd apologize for almost getting them killed later – if there was a later. He grabbed the doorframe with one hand and held out his other towards Bela.

"Come on!"

She latched onto him.

Dean used all his remaining strength to haul himself and Bela past the door's threshold into unending, inky darkness.

 

~

 

Dean thrashed awake.

His senses assaulted him. Something hard was in his throat, he was choking, there were hands on his arms, voices blending together, loud beeping, bright lights. He blinked against the whiteness. Whatever was snaking down his throat was gently removed. He gasped against the sandpaper dry sensation left behind. The voices surrounding him separated and he could hear Sam promising him it was okay and Bobby telling him to calm down.

"Wha' happ'n?" Dean got out around his parched, sluggish tongue. His voice was cracked and raspy. His eyes fluttered against the light and it took him a few seconds to focus on Sam's blissfully not-a- _drømmer_ face. His eyes were the same, familiar color.

"You were in a coma," supplied Sam, hand resting protectively on Dean's upper arm. His brother was covered in splashes of something sticky and green. Dean assumed that was where the rather pungent odor in the air was coming from. "A _gift drømmer_ got a hold of you and I was… I was too late to…"

Bobby passed Dean a small cup of water and Dean sipped at it slowly.

The memories were foggy but they trickled into place the harder Dean worked to remember them. The case, the coma patients. Calling Bobby, figuring out what they were up against. Finding the pattern, going to the home where the next attack was going to happen.

He exhaled in relief when the memories stayed, clear and stable, and didn't shift or wash away in a murky blur. He recalled the nasty creature with scaly blue skin, exploding out of the china cabinet. His gun flying. The glass coffee table, the blood…

Dean glanced down at his left hand which was neatly bandaged in clean, sterile wraps, then back up at Sam and Bobby flanking him. He tamped down a flash of anger that the _drømmer_ had used that against him.

"How'd you kill it?" he wondered.

"Decapitation," said Bobby. He and Sam exchanged a quick look and Dean knew there was a story there he'd need to get later.

He recalled the _drømmer_ 's hiss, it lunging straight for him, the splatter of rancid liquid on his face… lights out. Then the house, Jo, Dad, the darkness... _Bela._ His pulse jumped.

"Where is she?" Dean asked, eyes darting around the small space.

The curtains dividing his bed from the rest of the room opened. Bela offered him a wobbly sort of smile and wave. Sam jumped up to catch her when she stumbled on unsteady legs. He eased her into the chair beside Dean's bed and Dean ignored the surge of relief in chest at the sight of her.

"Alive, then?" She quirked her eyebrow at him.

Dean lifted his shoulders in the semblance of a shrug. The minor movement sent a wave of nausea boiling through his stomach and he inhaled deeply to settle it.

"Thank you," Sam breathed. He looked like he wanted to give Bela a hug, but it was still Bela, so he settled for a grateful nod. He clasped Dean's shoulder again as if afraid his brother might slip away if he wasn't paying attention.

"Well, _that_ was fun," Bela huffed, rubbing her palm against her temple. "And clearly worth it."

"You didn't have to, you know," Dean griped, fighting off the urge to throw up. Whatever the beastie had done to him, the after effects were proving to be very pleasant. His head was freaking _pounding._ Still, he was pretty thankful he was awake to even _have_ the after effects and not still stuck in wacked out coma hell.

"She uh, kinda did," said Sam with a wince. "She knew what we were up against and we... didn't."

"And she was the only one we knew who had the stuff and the know-how for the potion," Bobby grumbled. He cast a sideways look at Bela, not-quite-scowling over having to give her credit for something.

"You're welcome," Bela said haughtily.

Dean narrowed his eyes. Count on her to save his life then be irritated about it. Well, he could be irritated right back. (It was safer, after all.) "How much is it gonna cost me this time?"

"Ten thousand should do the trick," she replied.

"Now hold on," Bobby began at the same time Sam balked, "Bela, we had a deal!"

Dean shook his head. "Same old."

"Oh, stop your fussing," Bela groaned. "My head is killing me. That copy-cat draught was extraordinarily unpleasant and I should be charging you all _much_ more for that ill-fated rescue mission."

"You know we had no choice," Sam bit out.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Friends and family discount: eight thousand."

Bobby grumbled out some choice words while Sam's mouth hung open in speechless indignation. Dean glared at Bela. He felt too ill to be properly angry with her but he was rankled nonetheless.

"Seriously?"

She flicked her eyes past him and sighed. "Oh, very well. I suppose I owe you for that whole amulet business."

"Hell yeah, you do," Dean barked. Sam snorted in agreement. Dean still had scars from _that_ little adventure, thank you very much.

"So perhaps a reasonable five thousand, yeah?" She tossed her hair over her shoulder and busied herself with doing up her jacket and gathering her purse.

Dean finally realized she was avoiding looking at him. In fact, if he didn't know better, he'd say that the flush in her cheeks had nothing to do with post- _gift drømmer_ sickness or whatever. In _fact_ , he'd even go so far as to say she looked guilty about asking for money, after the crap they'd just been through. After what she'd seen and heard.

_Huh._

She stood. "You can owe me."

Dean let out a chuckle. "God, you're so damaged," he said, echoing a conversation they'd once had at the end of another "adventure".

Bela met his eyes then, grey-green and sharp. She looked about to retort with something snide as usual, but something flickered there, something abnormally soft that made his heart hammer in his chest. She hesitated.

He didn't need her thinking about what she'd seen in his head, didn't need or want her pity. He stiffened and willed her to keep her damn mouth shut for once.

She slipped on her arrogant mask, mercifully sliding her gaze from Dean to Bobby and Sam. "Goodbye, lads." She waggled her fingers and made for the door.

"Bela," Dean called, ignoring the looks he was getting from Bobby and Sam on either side of him. "How'd you know what to do? How'd you, you know. How'd you know where to go?"

"Oh, darling," she tilted her head down. He swore he saw a hint of sadness there. "Wouldn't you like to know?" She winked and closed the door behind her.

Dean exhaled. On one hand, it was a relief to see her pretending to be normal. And leaving. On the other…

"Everyone check you still have your wallets."

Sam and Bobby patted down their pockets and exchanged worried glances.

"Seriously?" said Sam.

Bobby smacked his fist against his knee. " _Balls!"_

Dean laid his throbbing head down on the pillow and couldn't stop the smile that spread across his lips, even though he really tried.

He and Bela seriously needed to stop saving each other's lives – it was becoming a bad habit.

**-end-**


End file.
